Old Memories, New Feelings
by May.Rhi16
Summary: May. France has been in love with Canada for a while, but he hid it well while he was with England. But what happens when England leaves France for America? Will Canada accept his feelings? Human names used. Rated M for smut in the second part. Two-shot.


Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of its characters.

**AN: This is only a two part fic, as I want to finish the other Hetalia one that I have started, 'How They Ended Up Here", but I also didn't want to let this idea go to waste. So here it is, a Fracanada. Reviews are love. **

WARNINGS: Incest – kinda – (FrancexCanada, hinted EnglandxAmerica), mild swearing, some mild violence… I think that's it.

**Old Memories, New Feelings**

**PART ONE**

Matthew Williams, better known as Canada, walked up to the beautiful glass pane door that belonged to his father figure, France, better known as Francis Bonnefoy. Matthew had heard about his father figures, France and England breaking up, and Arthur starting to date America, their 'son' and his twin brother again, not for the first, or even fourth time, and that was the reason for him being in France, and away from his own country.  
Matthew sighed, he didn't know what his Papa and Dad had done to each other this time, but this was nothing new. France, England and America had been in a twisted and tangled relationship since before America became Independent.

**FLASHBACK**

Matthew walked into his home, humming softly as he hugged his polar bear close, snuggling slightly into the warm and silky soft white fur, before slipping his shoes off and putting Kuma down. He quietly walked down the hall, his humming stopping as he stepped into the doorway of the kitchen, where he saw his Papa France and Dad England screaming at each other. He didn't know what they were fighting about, but he was just in time to hear the Frenchman scream "GET OUT OF THIS HOUSE! AND DON'T COME BACK!"  
Matthew also remembered his Papa crying into his hair as he watched England pack his bags and walk out the door with Alfred.  
That was only the first time that he and his brother Alfred had been separated.

**END FLASHBACK**

Matthew grimaced as he knocked on the door, wondering what he was going to be faced with, and just how bad France was this time. Papa was always a mess after he and England broke up, and after he found out that America was screwing England again, which was why, being the 'good' son, he had come to visit his Papa, and see how he was doing.  
The door opened to reveal a very drunk, very messy France. Matthew gasped quietly, Francis hadn't been this bad since Jeanne D'Arc had died, or the first time that he had told his husband to leave and never come back. He sighed. This was worse than he thought.  
"Bonjour Papa."  
Francis looked at him for a moment before he responded. "Bonjour Mattheiu."  
Canada smiled at the person who had taught him French, and how to cook, and take care of himself, and watched as the door opened to grant him entrance into the lavish home that he had grown up in.  
"What happened this time Papa?"  
The Frenchman sat down on the couch opposite Matthew, and he was grateful. A drunken France was a horny France, and Matthew didn't feel the need to be molested by his father figure, unlike Alfred.  
"Well, it was like this. I came home after a very stressful day at work and I wanted to relax…" Matthew blocked out what his father was saying; he wasn't interested, he just needed the man to talk. But he found himself listening when the Frenchman revealed the cause of him breaking up with his husband this time. "… and I walked in on Arthur fucking Alfred into the mattress, in OUR BED!" Francis took a breath before continuing. "It wasn't like I didn't know about it, with all the lustful staring that Arthur practiced with Alfred, but in our bed? Really? The one place where we consummated our marriage and our love? Why did it have to be there, of all places? That was the one place that I could turn to without having to worry about if they had slept there or not, but now… Now I have to burn the bed, and find a new mattress to fit my back…" Matthew faded out again, scarred by what his Papa had told him.  
They all knew that they were sleeping together, but it was on thing to suspect, but an entirely different matter when you were hearing about it from a person who had seen it with their own eyes.

The Canadian looked around the room, his Papa having forgotten what he was saying so that he could have a swig of the wine he was holding. He looked at the ground and saw a number of empty wine bottles littering the floor, and that's when he realized.

He was alone.

With a drunk Francis.

Who was very horny when he was drunk.

And no one knew where he was.

It was then that he noticed the Frenchman had stopped talking, and was now staring at him with lust clear in his gaze. He swallowed heavily, keeping his eyes on Francis as he started to stand.  
"Mattheiu? Where are you going? Why won't you comfort your dear old Papa?"  
It was then the Canadian nation started to run towards the door, hearing France run after him, giggling, thinking it was a game. Matthew was lucky that he was drunk, and wobbled a bit more than usual, giving him a good chance to get to the door…

But his dreams were crushed when an arm wrapped itself around his waist and pushed forward so that he fell to the floor, groaning in pain as his back connected with the hardwood floor with a sickening 'thump' before France landed on him with an 'oof' as their bodies were pressed flush against each others.

"Honhonhon, mon cher Mattheiu, there was no reason for you to play coy… I already wanted you.~ You know that Papa loves you, adores you…"

Matthew struggled under the Frenchman, trying desperately to get away so that he wouldn't get molested… Or raped… But all his struggles did was excite the drunken man, and Matthew now struggled to get away from both Francis's hands and his lips. He knew that the Frenchman would give up soonish, as he always did when he didn't get his way, but it was a question of how long he would have to wait for the ma to get to that stage. By the looks and feel of it, he wasn't going to be giving up any time soon.

"Papa! Get… *pant* off… *whine*… me!" With a good hard shove of his shoulder into Francis's chest, he as able to push his Papa off him and was able to get up and start running.

The twists and turns of the dark passages were no match for Matthew, who had grown up here, and knew his way around like the back of his hand, because he had to, if he was ever going to beat Alfred at 'hide-and-seek' or 'tag'. Quickly, he ran into his old bedroom and slammed the door shut, knowing that this was the last place France would look for him. At the moment, Canada wasn't his son, he was merely someone to fuck until someone else came along.

"Papa…"

**FOUR TO FIVE HOURS LATER…**

… Found Matthew sorting through his cupboards and the boxes under his childhood bed. He had long ago stopped crying, or hoping that France would start to sober, but clearly, it wasn't meant to be as of yet. So Matthew had busied himself, trying to reconnect to the things that had been hidden away in this bedroom, like his old stuffed replica of his cat, that had died when he was still under Francis's care, before he got handed over to Arthur. Francis knew that he had loved the cat more than anything, (this was also before he found Kuma), and had wanted to abate his grief for a moment, and had had a toy, stuffed and fluffy replica of his beloved pet. It now sat on the bed, waiting until Matthew needed him again.

Next, Matthew found the clothes that France had put him in when he first became under France's care. The were so tiny, and he couldn't believe that he had ever been that small, but the proof was right there, so much so that he had no choice to believe it. He quickly put them aside and started to dig deeper into the seemingly never-ending box, stiffening when France ran past his door for the third time, still not being able to find him, still not bothering to look in his old charges old room.

The next thing that Matthew pulled out of the box looked like a old notebook, but when he opened it, he found that it was a photo album filled with scribbles underneath them. Pictures of France, England, America, himself and various other nations, filled to the brim with descriptions and dates of what and who the photos contained, where they were taken and what the occasion was.

He found himself smiling at a photo that held his family, and him together, at the beach, before things went really wrong between Arthur and Francis. Before he and his brother had be separated, and before the family gathering and photos stopped. That is, until he was taken by England and then he and America had taken photos with Arthur, and when he was allowed to go to France, photos of him and his brother with their Papa were pasted in. Over time there was more of the nations involved in the photos, and they could no longer be counted as 'family' photos, because the nations involved had nothing to do with family.

He had just put the book down when suddenly the door came lying open and there was France, standing in the doorway panting, but there was a glint in his eyes that told Matthew the his former keeper was sober. At last.

France walked into the room, his pace slowly and his breathing heavy. It was clear that he hadn't been in this room for a while, and that he was re-visiting his old memories of his former colony. He sat on the bed, narrowly missing the things that Matthew had laid out on it before he glanced down at the male on the floor.

"Mattheiu… What did I do to you this morning? And why are you in here of all places?"

"You didn't do anything to me Papa. You tried… But I got away and hid in here, because I knew this would be the last place you would look." He looked down. "And then, I got bored because I have been here for god knows how long, and I started to look in the boxes that you had stuffed in here."

The Frenchman nodded before his eyes fell on the photo album, and he quickly looked away. "Ah, oui, Mattheiu, mon cher, it is time for you to come away from this room. We have… certain things to discuss, that should not be done here."

Quickly, both father and son stood before exiting the room, leaving things as they were, because they both knew that Matthew would find his way back to continue going through the boxes, simply because he was curious. They made their way to the longue, where it had been cleaned of the bottles, sitting on the couch where a pot of tea and cups were waiting for them.

"So, Papa, what did you want to talk about?"

The nation looked uncomfortable with the attention that his former colony paid him, but he answered the question as he poured the steaming tea into the waiting cups.

"I wasn't completely honest with you…"

Matthew felt his heart freeze, and drop to the bottom of his feet as the words registered. He dropped his gaze from the bright blue orbs that he once found so beautiful. He waited for his father figure to continue, waited until the moment he could leave, go home, drink a bottle or two of maple syrup before crashing into bed with Kuma.

"I wasn't drunk the whole time you were here. It was an act, to try and get you to stay, and be closer to me, but all you did was run away, and I felt… I felt empty. I'm sorry, Mattheiu, can you ever forgive me?"

Matthew looked up into the eyes he was trying to avoid, confusion written over his face and Francis knew that he wanted to know just when he hadn't been drunk. Quickly, he grabbed onto a small, pale and delicate hand squeezing it tightly between his own before he looked down.

"I wasn't drunk when I chased you. When we were pressed together, when I told you that I loved you, that I adored you, when I tried to kiss you… And then you got up an ran away from me." He took a deep breath. "And that was when I got myself drunk."

Matthew pulled his hand from his fathers, and, for the second or third time that day, turned and ran from the older nation, but this time, it was out of the house.

**Back In Canada…**

Matthew stared at his phone as it vibrated on the glass coffee table, before he walked from the room and up the stairs. He knew who was calling. It was the same person that had called for days. His Papa Francis Bonnefoy. France. America and England had tried to call a couple of times, but once he knew that it was about France, he quickly hung up on them and started to screen his calls. He didn't want to talk about, or to the Frenchman. Not until he had gotten his thoughts and feelings towards the nation straight, and he know what he was going to say to or about him. But until then, he could only hope that everyone would get the message, and leave him alone. He had warned his boss and agents not to let nay of the other nations – except Ivan (their hockey match was coming up in about a week, but he was only allowed to stay for two nights) – into the country, and, knowing that Matthew would know, they had done as he wished. He was completely and utterly isolated from the other nations.

The vibrating had stopped, and for a brief moment there was peace and silence in the Canadian's house, and that was when he lunged for the phone, ignoring all of the missed calls (there was 53 of them, from various numbers) and turning it off. But that was when his home and office phone started to ring, one after the other, or some at the same time. Giving a yell of anger, he stalked towards the power outage before ripping the connection lines out of the socket, leaving him in total since. Sighing, the young nation walked to his laptop, which was sitting on the kitchen bench, waiting patiently for him. He quickly typed in the familiar address of his email account, and, to his horror, there were 457 emails waiting from him. All from Francis, America and England. It was in that order of who dominated the inbox. Still ignoring them, he opened up a new email, and sent one to his bosses explaining that he couldn't use the phones or email to contact him because of what happened in France. Yes, he bosses knew. And they understood. He was quickly sent a reply stating that they would send all mail to him via snail mail.

Great. Another reminder of a thing to sort through. The three nations had quickly learnt that Matthew loved getting mail, and had sent him dozens upon dozens of letters, and he had just sorted them into different piles that were quickly growing bigger and bigger. But he couldn't bring himself to talk to anyone. So he scooped up Kuma, the only one that was really there for him, and went to bed…

… Only to dream of Francis, of the Frenchman kissing him, touching him in places he hadn't been touched before, (yes, Mattie was still a virgin) and taking him, slowly, lazily, romantically before he whispered the only words that Canada wanted to hear: I love you.

**In France… **

The Frenchman was going insane. His petit Mattheiu had run away from him again, but this time, he was barred from going after him, because Mattheiu had made it clear that he wasn't allowed to enter Canada (the nation, not the personification, just to be clear), and wasn't allowed near his son. He knew that he had probably scared and hurt him, but he needed to make sure that his petit lapin would talk to him again, would accept him once again, would still come running to him when something went wrong. But it was a long shot. The stupid American and England had both tried contacting his son, but there was no answer, for anyone, via any forms of communication. Realistically, he knew that his son would want space and time to think, but it was something that Frenchman couldn't give until he knew that he would be allowed to talk with Mattheiu, after he had finished thinking. His heart was breaking at the silence, and he knew in his head that the increased effort of trying to contact the hiding nation was not going to make things better, it was only going to make things worse.

But it was his son, his joy, his heart… His love. He knew that it was wrong, to others, but they weren't blood related, and besides, nations had different rules to humans. But he didn't know what Mattheiu would think of it, if he even found it okay that his 'father' loved him in a non-familiar way. God, he was no better than Arthur with Alfred. But… At least he had waited until Mattheiu was of age before he even TRIED to express his feelings of love and lust to his charge. After all, he had some common sense, and some dignity, he was not going to sleep with a little child, EVER. Unlike England, who slept with America the first chance he got.

The nation of love sighed. He quickly sent one last text before stopping all forms of communication, and telling the others to stop too.

**TO:** Mon petit Mattheiu, Canada

**FROM:** Francis Bonnefoy, France  
**TIME SENT:** 3.27am

_Mon cher Mattheiu, I'm sorry. I want you to know that, as well as the face that I love you, in every way possible. I understand what you're going through, and I hope that once you have had enough time, you will be able to come to me. Mon petit lapin, I miss you._

With a heavy heart, the nation sent the text, and hoped that it would be well received. It was now 3.30am, and there was nothing he could do except go to bed, and think of his sweet Mattheiu and how he was going to make it up to him.


End file.
